


The Reincarnation of Nuwanda

by tomatopudding



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatopudding/pseuds/tomatopudding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his expulsion from Welton, Charlie Dalton is sent by his parents to another, less prestigious, all-boys boarding school. But he is not the Charlie Dalton we knew and loved. A combination of Neil’s death and his expulsion had also spelled the death of Charlie’s brave, day seizing, alter-ego Nuwanda. Will Charlie be able to overcome his grief, or is Nuwanda gone for good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like posting this, because it's nice to get ALL of your stuff out there. I wrote this a while ago, so I apologize for it's lack of flow and creative premise. I also apologize for the over-useage of quotes from the film.

St. Anthony’s School for Boys was located in a rural area of Massachusetts, not very far away from the former colony of Jamestown. St. Anthony’s was very much like Welton in its belief system. The four pillars were the same (tradition, honour, discipline, excellence, though Charlie would forever remember them as travesty, horror, decadence, excrement), and even the teaching method was the same, including the rating of poetry on a scale created by none other than Mr. J Evans Pritchard.

_‘Excrement. That’s what I think of Mr. J Evans Pritchard!’ Mr. Keating proclaimed, studying the class’ reaction, ‘We’re not laying pipe, we’re talking about poetry! How can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? Now I want you to rip out that page. Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out!’_

_The entire class sat in incredulous silence for a moment, then a ripping filled the air and Charlie held up the torn out page._

_‘Thank you, Mr. Dalton!’_

‘Hey, Dalton.’

Charlie snapped out of his memories to see his roommate, Andrew Laten, standing beside his desk.

‘We’re dismissed.’

Charlie nodded absently, collecting his things and standing, obviously still lost in thought. Ever since Charlie had transferred from Welton, Andrew had noticed that he was silent and not a very social or upbeat guy. It was about a week into the school year, and Charlie was getting more introverted by the day.

‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’

Andrew looked over at his dark-haired roommate in surprise. Charlie hardly ever spoke, but when he did it was only when he and Andrew were alone, as they were now, in their room.

‘What?’

‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may/Old time is still a flying/And this same flower that smiles today/Tomorrow will be dying.’ Chralie said, his voice soft, ‘Carpe diem, seize the day, make your lives extraordinary!’

Charlie often spoke in strange riddles this way, little snippets of poems Andrew had never heard before.

‘What are you talking about?’ Andrew queried. He’d never before gotten an answer and so was not expecting what came next.

‘I’m talking about free speech!’ Charlie said, suddenly vehement, ‘Our teacher told us those words and a year ago today my friend, N—’ Charlie faltered, stumbling over the name.

‘Yes?’ Andrew pressed. Finally a chance to learn more about the elusive Charles Dalton!

But Charlie didn’t speak and Andrew soon found why; his friends had arrived and Charlie was obviously going to return to his self-imposed muteness.

As Andrew turned to greet his friends, Charlie studied them all.

It broke his heart how much Andrew looked like Neil, with the same high cheek bones, dark eyes, and floppy hair; Kevin Balin was a proxy for Meeks; James Smithton was a dead ringer for Pitts and Garrett Winslow was a look-alike for Knox, so much so that Charlie found himself calling them ‘Pittsie’ and ‘Knoxious’ in his mind; Colin Frampton was obviously Todd; there was even the red-headed Nathaniel Grout who could have been Cameron’s twin, but in appearances only as his demeanor was completely opposite. Of course, it was possible that he was reading too much into it, projecting the faces he wanted to see instead of the ones actually before him.

‘Charlie?’

Andrew, who was watching him worriedly, snapped Charlie away from the past again.

‘I’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes!’

Charlie, of course, didn’t answer, but the look of worry on a face so similar to Neil’s almost sent him over the edge, even a year later.

‘You coming to study?’

Charlie shook his head and Andrew shrugged.

‘Suit yourself.’

After they had left, Charlie went to his desk and pulled out a book from the top drawer. The thick book, “Five Centuries of Verse”, had appeared with his things when he had been packing at Welton along with a piece of paper upon which were scrawled two words in Mr. Keating’s handwriting: Carpe diem.

Charlie opened the book and began to flip through it, finding the pages that Mr. Keating had marked, as well as few Neil had noted. It was only when a plop of liquid landed in his desk that Charlie realized he was crying.


	2. Chapter 2

When Andrew returned, Charlie was asleep at his desk, head pillowed on the thick book of poetry. Andrew approached his roommate and lightly shook him.

‘Leave me alone,’ Charlie muttered.

Andrew shook his again.

‘Leave me alone, Cameron.’

Charlie jerked awake and found not Cameron, but what appeared to be Neil.

‘Neil?’ Charlie asked, his voice filled with hope. Andrew hated to break his spirit.

‘No, Andrew.’

‘Oh,’ Charlie said, trying and failing not to appear crestfallen.

‘Who’s Neil?’ Andrew asked curiously, hoping that his roommate was still tired enough to let something slip.

‘Neil is…was,’ Charlie swallowed, ‘Never mind.’

‘You can tell me, Dalton, c’mon,’ Andrew pressed.

‘He was a friend,’ Charlie murmured.

‘From Welton?’ Andrew asked. When Charlie nodded, he continued, ‘What? Don’t you keep in contact with your friends from Welton?’

But Charlie would reveal no more.

‘What’re you reading?’

As a response, Charlie closed the book and handed it over.

‘ “Five Centuries of Verse”,’ Andrew read. He opened the front cover and flipped to the title page, ‘What’s the Dead Poets Society?’

Any answer was cut short by the arrival of Kevin, Colin, Garrett, James, and Nathaniel bursting in.

‘Hey, guys,’ Andrew said. He was glad to see he friends, but wished that they could have waited until after Charlie had explained.

‘What’s that?’ asked Kevin, pointing at the book.

‘Uh…’

During Andrew’s hesitation, Garrett darted forward and grabbed the book.

‘Hey!’ Andrew protested.

‘Poetry?’ Nathaniel snorted.

‘It’s mine.’

All the boys turned to Charlie, surprised to hear him speak.

‘Yours?’ Nathaniel asked, holding up the book.

‘Yeah, you got a problem?’ Charlie asked, unable to stop himself from glaring at the Cameron look-alike. Nathaniel shook his head. Colin, looking over Nathaniel’s shoulder, spoke up.

‘ “To be read at the start of every meeting of the Dead Poets Society”.’

And suddenly, Charlie was back in the old Indian cave, Neil reading those very words by the light of a flashlight, the whole group crowded around, joking and laughing, but still feeling the words seep into their very bones. Charlie’s eyes fluttered shut and he could feel Neil’s voice wash over him, smooth and soft, reading each word as if it were a precious gem.

‘Charlie!’

Charlie snapped back to reality to find everyone giving him wide-eyed, worried stares. Charlie wiped away the moisture in the corner of one eye—had he ever cried this much?—took the book and climbed into bed without another word, tucking the volume under his pillow. There was an eerie silence filling the room as the other boys simply sat there.

‘Let’s go to mine and Nate’s room,’ Colin murmured quietly. And they were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was Saturday which, unlike at Welton, was a day off. When Charlie awoke, the group of boys was back, sitting around Andrew’s bed and chatting. It was James, the tall Pitts look-alike, who noticed that he was awake.

‘Morning, Charlie.’

‘Good morning,’ Charlie replied, albeit softly and hesitantly. He was still not quite comfortable with these boys.

‘You missed breakfast, so we snuck you some toast,’ James told him, offering two slices wrapped in a linen napkin.

As Charlie ate, he listened to the other boys converse idly about English class.

‘What do you think, Dalton?’

Charlie looked up at Andrew.

‘About English class,’ Andrew clarified.

_‘I want you to rip out that page. Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it our. Rip it out!'_

Charlie felt a semblance of his old grin creep across his face as he let the spirit of Mr. Keating wash over him and force the same words he had once been told out of his mouth.

‘Excrement,’ Charlie/Keating replied, ‘That’s what I think of Mr. J Evans Pritchard. We’re not laying pipe, we’re talking about poetry. How can you describe poetry like American Bandstand?’

The other boys began to laugh.

‘That’s priceless!’ Colin managed through his chuckles, ‘Where did you get that?’

‘Mr. Keating,’ Charlie replied with a crooked smile, imagining in his mind’s eye that the spirit had left him and was now watching with a smile and a nod.

‘Who?’

‘Man most likely to do anything,’ Charlie told them, quoting Keating’s senior annual, ‘He was our English teacher at Welton last year. He hated Pritchard so much that he had us rip out the entire introduction.’

‘Really?’ Kevin asked, eyes wide.

‘Dead Poets honour,’ Charlie replied, ‘I still have the pages.’

‘Again with the Dead Poets,’ Garrett sighed, ‘What’s a Dead Poet and why do they have a society?’

Charlie sat silent for a moment, arguing within himself the merits of telling this new group of, dare he say it, friends the entire truth.

‘Why do we read poetry?’ Charlie asked quietly.

The others sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

‘Because it rhymes?’ Colin tried.

‘No,’ Charlie said. He paused, the decision made, ‘The Dead Poets,’ he began and they all leaned forward to catch it, ‘were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life.’

The boys chuckled at this, but their laughter ceased and Charlie’s seriousness.

‘That’s a phrase from Thoreau that the Dead Poets would say at the start of every meeting.’ Charlie was getting excited now, eager to get to the point of the Society, ‘You see, we’d gather at an old Indian cave on the edge of campus and take turns reading for Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even, for those brave enough, some of our own verse. And, in the enchantment of the moment, we’d let the poetry work its magic.’

‘A bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry,’ Colin said skeptically.

Charlie chucked as he remembered his own reluctance, ‘No, it wasn’t just guys, we weren’t a Greek organization we were Romantics, with a capital R, that is. We didn’t just read poetry, we let it drip from out tongues like honey,’ like Neil did with Shakespeare, ‘Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created!’

The silence that filled the room seemed to be filled with an unearthly glow.

‘Let’s do it!’ Andrew said with excitement, ‘Tonight!’

‘No.’ Charlie said firmly. This was what he was afraid of.

‘Why not, Charlie? It sounds incredible!’

‘It was,’ Charlie said, ‘at first, but it led to my expulsion, among other things. Someone finked about the Society and tried to force us to incriminate Mr. Keating. I was the only one who didn’t cave under the pressure, not that I blame anyone except Cameron.’

‘But why should they care that you were reading poetry?’

Charlie swallowed, unsure of exactly how much he wanted to reveal.

‘It was because of what happened to Neil.’

‘What happened?’

Charlie was saved from answering by a knock on the door.

‘It’s open.’

The Latin teacher, a gray-haired man by the name of Feeney, stuck his head through the door.

‘Mr. Dalton, you have visitors.’

‘Visitors?’

‘Yes, Mr. Dalton, visitors. Get dressed and come to the recreation hall,’ Feeney said, ‘Your friends may come as well if you wish.’

‘Mr. Feeney? May I ask who?’

‘Messers Meeks, Anderson, Overstreet, and Pitts.’

Charlie’s eyes widened.

‘Thank you, sir, I’ll be there in a moment!’

The other boys watched in confusion as Charlie hurriedly changed.

‘The Dead Poets,’ Charlie said in a hushed voice, ‘They’re here!’

Charlie eagerly strode towards the recreation hallway, the others following excitedly in his wake. Charlie flung the door to the recreation hall open.

‘Charlie!’

Charlie jogged over with a huge grin. The St. Anthony boys watched as Charlie made his way through the group, embracing each boy tightly, their names erupting from his lips like a prayer: Meeks, Todd, Knoxious, Pittsie.

‘So, how’s life here at St. What’s-His-Face treating you, Dalton?’ asked the one nicknamed Knoxious.

‘It’s the return of Mr. J Evans Pritchard, PhD,’ Charlie told them. The boys laughed.

‘Excrement!’ they chorused.

‘Oh,’ Charlie said suddenly, walking back to the St. Anthony boys, ‘These are my new friends,’ he paused, assessing each boy’s reaction to that label then set about introducing them all.

‘You just talked to them yesterday,’ Andrew murmured as pleasantries were exchanged.

‘They’ve treated me with kindness and respect. If that’s not friendship, what is?’

‘Nuwanda?’

Todd’s soft voice broke through the flurry of conversations. Charlie stiffened.

‘It’s Charlie, Todd. I haven’t been Nuwanda for a long time.’

‘Charlie, you know why we’re here.’

Charlie swallowed and looked away from the blonde.

‘It’s been a year, Charlie.’

‘I know,’ Charlie said softly. He then turned to Andrew, ‘D’you guys want to come?’

‘Charlie,’ Meeks started.

‘I want them to come. He would want them to come too.’

The Welton boys exchanged glances and then nodded, turning to the others.

‘Sure,’ Andrew answered, speaking for the group, even though they had no idea where they were going.


	4. Chapter 4

They drove for hours, arriving about mid-afternoon. The sky was a steely gray with dark clouds threatening a storm. Todd led the group, having memorized where _it_ was. The Welton boys went forward immediately in a tight-knit group, leaving the St. Anthony boys a few feet away. Charlie hesitated, halfway between the groups, but finally surged forward to drop to his knees in front of the stone slab. His arm shook as he leaned forward to trace the name etched on the headstone: Neil Perry. And suddenly he was there again at Todd’s bedside, the news slipping from his lips with difficulty. Neil’s dead.

Charlie curled over, clutching his stomach, broken sobs emitting from his constricted throat. The clouds decided at this point to dump their contents and all of the boys were soon thoroughly soaked. Todd dropped down on his knees in the mud next to Charlie, arms coming around Charlie’s trembling form, his own tears mingling with the rainwater on his face. First Knox, then Meeks, and finally Pitts dropped down beside the two embracing, sobbing boys, adding their own arms to the tangled hug.

Eventually, they all calmed down enough to get up and take the trek back to the waiting automobile. The drive back to St. Anthony was silent except for the rumble of the motor and the plopping of rain in the hood. Quick goodbyes and tear-stained hugs were exchanged, and then the Welton boys were headed away.

They all changed into dry pyjamas and congregated in Charlie and Andrew’s room despite the fact that it was well past lights out. They weren’t reprimanded. They all sat in morose silence.

‘Neil Perry was my best friend,’ Charlie said suddenly, ‘We knew each other for years. When he heard Mr. Keating’s stories about the society, he was eager to get started.’

_‘I hearby reconvene the Dead Poets Society, Welton chapter.’_

‘It all gave him the dose of confidence he needed to follow his dream, acting. He got the main part in a local production, but his father found out and forbid him from doing it,’ Charlie let out a shuddering sigh, ‘but he did it anyway. He was good, amazing. Mr. Perry showed up at the show and took Neil home right away. We found out the next morning that Neil,’ Charlie choked up and it took him a few moments to regain control, ‘Neil—he—he shot himself.’

A cold silence followed this statement.

‘So that’s why you don’t want to start up the society again?’ asked a voice.

‘I don’t want something like that happening ever again,’ Charlie replied softly.

‘But what would Neil want?’ Andrew asked.

‘You look so much like him,’ Charlie said instead of answering.

‘What would Neil want?’ Andrew asked again, more forcefully this time.

‘Carpe diem,’ Charlie answered. Then, with more confidence, ‘Carpe diem!’

‘We start tomorrow night,’ Andrew said firmly.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie and Andrew arrived last, finding everyone already seated in a small cave across the campus field. Charlie put aside the case containing his saxophone, which he hadn’t touched since that day, and stood on a rock holding Five Centuries of Verse in his hands.

‘I hearby convene the Dead Poets Society, St. Anthony chapter,’ Charlie announced, his voice wavering slightly, ‘I’ll now read the traditional opening message by society member Henry David Thoreau,’ Charlie opened the book and read, his voice growing stronger and more sure, ‘ “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.” ’

After the clapping died away, Charlie dove right in. He had planned out how to go about introducing the society to these boys who had never known Mr. Keating. He had finally resolved to begin as Mr. Keating, himself, had.

‘ “I sound my barbaric”, ’ Charlie took a deep breath and shouted the next word, ‘ “YAWP over the rooftops of the world”. These words were written by Walt Whitman, and that is what this society is all about. Now, why do we study poetry? Anybody?’

As previously, nobody had an answer.

‘Come on, throw something at me.’

‘To measure its worth?’ Garrett tried

‘Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry,’ Charlie scoffed, ‘No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J Evans Pritchard! Now, here you will learn to savour words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world,’ Charlie looked around at the attentive faced trained on him.

‘I see that look in your eyes, like nineteenth century literature had nothing to do with going to business school or medical school. Right?’

The other boys nodded and Charlie shrugged.

‘Maybe. So we should simply study our Pritchard and learn out rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions. Well, I have a little secret for ya,’ Charlie looked around, catching each boy’s eye, ‘we don’t read and write poetry because its cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.’

Charlie was vehement now, his voice picking up volume, ‘Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But,’ Charlie’s voice took on a softer and more passionate quality, ‘poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: “O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life?” Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse!’

Charlie looked slowly around the small cave, seeing the boys’ looks of wonder, suddenly realizing how Mr. Keating and Neil could keep doing this, keep leading everybody.

‘That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. Well? What will your verse be?’

There was a head-pounding silence filling the cave as the boys soaked in these words. Charlie quietly got out his saxophone, wetting the reed. He brought the instrument to his lips and blew a few screeching, out-of-tune notes, causing the other boys to jump and look at him.

‘Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling. Gotta do more. Gotta be more.’

Charlie once again brought up the instrument and played some more ear splitting notes.

‘Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming. Gotta do more! Gotta be more!’

The next stream of screaming notes slowly faded into a soft tune of Charlie’s own composition. His eyes slid closed as the last notes faded into silence.

‘Charlie,’ Andrew whispered after a moment, ‘that was incredible.’

‘Thanks. Oh, and Andrew?’

‘Yeah?’

Charlie grinned.

‘Call me Nuwanda.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I again apologize for this story's lack of being good. I'm gonna go hit the post button before I lose my nerve....


End file.
